Throughout my travels to Italy, I’ve concluded – among a multitude of socio-cultural theories – that most Italians are as devoutly tied to their seaside vacations as they are to their religious rituals (perhaps more so when it comes to the vital importance of showing off their evenly tanned bodies). Case in point: the country’s beaches swelling with well-oiled humanity during the August high season, best known as ferragosto or, interestingly, the feast of Mary’s Assumption into Heaven (a holiday that actually post-dates a Roman one dedicated to the goddess Diana). The Christian and the pagan tow a very murky line.
So, anyway, my husband Joe and I make it a point to avoid the August coastal crush. But we did agree to stay at Joe’s Calabrian cousins’ summer condo in San Lucido, Calabria one early September – still-gorgeous weather minus the crowds. We typically visit his relatives in their cozy but less temperate farm abode in the mountains near Cosenza. This time, we were ready to experience the region’s boldly commanding coastline along the Tyrrhenian Sea. San Lucido is an unpretentious town, whose elevated historic center is remarkably close to the ocean. It’s not far from the revered town of Paola, seat of pilgrimage hot spot the Santuario di San Francesco di Paola. Yet ours would be a generally shrine-less sand-and-sun respite.
Joe’s mild-mannered cousin Luigi met us at Lamezia Terme airport and took the scenic route along a plunging and winding road with the sea on one side and mountains, almost all of them topped with Aragonese castles, on the other. We vacillated between the nondescript fishing and scuba shops of a modern beach strip and the rugged ruins of former occupying civilizations. Rather than recounting the various Norman, Angevin and Spaniard invasions, Luigi opted to give us the “produce tour.” He pointed out the onion fields of Campora San Giovanni, the sweet tomato gardens of Belmonte Calabro, a smattering of olive groves, and abundant fig clusters – ingredients we would soon savor in his vivacious wife Pina’s seasonal cuisine. Here I must note that, considering the uncontained passion for fresh ingredients in this country, the Italians make critical distinctions between, say, the ricotta from one particular farm and another; among vegetables sprouted from soil with diverse and subtle nuances mere centimeters away, and so on. The debates can last for centuries.
Once recovered from our jetlag, Joe and I joined Pina, Luigi and their children on the patio for a snack of creamy mozzarella di bufala, penne tossed in a light tomato sauce, and fresh figs peeled and tucked between slices of crusty bread. As evening approached, we made our way to the beach for a sunset swim. This particular beach, with one end cluttered with an assortment of gantries and rusty boat parts, had something of an industrial feel. It also faced train tracks with overhead electrical wires. Occasionally a train would rumble past, creating small tremors in the ink-blue water. Then peace and quiet emerged, only to be drowned out by an emergency helicopter dousing a black-smoking mountain (from a sudden brush fire) with suspended buckets of water.
That first evening, though, turned out to be a generally relaxing one. We all drove up to San Lucido proper and enjoyed dinner at a casual outdoor pizzeria packed with animated throngs of families. A carefree passeggiata to nowhere followed. The high-altitude town is anchored by a medieval castle and the late-Renaissance Chiesa della Santa Maria Annunziata, with an impressive Gothic portal. The locals, in their unassumingly tranquil town, seem unfazed by the infinite stretch of water before them viewed from atop an imposing cliff. Essentially no tourism exists here. So, instead of museums, visitors experience the low drone of motorini stacked with style-conscious teenagers; shopkeepers casually conversing in front of their beaded doorways; and babies being passed among the anxious weathered hands of doting grandmothers. Our stroll encompassed pleasant chats with friends and meeting a talkative woman, who showed us a well-tread wooden staircase that stopped abruptly in midair in an alley as narrow as a needle’s eye. On this warm evening, entire families reclined on chaise lounges outside under the moonlight.
Cousin Pina made the sign of the cross before a grotto dedicated to the Virgin Mary, adjacent to the closed Annunziata church that she promised to show us the next day. We proceeded through more nooks and crannies and under a thick arch draped in caper plants – the vines brushing up against a window where laundry was hanging out to dry. A scrawny cat observed us from the hood of a worn Api vehicle as the smell of burning leaves peppered the breezy night air with the sensation of impending autumn.
Now close to midnight, Joe and I were a bit surprised to hear loud voices and music pouring out of a small piazza. As we drew nearer, we got swept into a rare flickering embodiment of the film, Cinema Paradiso, in which a movie is projected onto a building outside. Before us, Calabrians of all ages sat on white folding chairs among the palm trees. They were watching an outdoor screening of the delightfully racy Marcello Mastroianni-Sophia Loren comedy, Marriage Italian Style, against a decaying palazzo. Three stately white-haired women stood on their balcony, lit cigarettes, and leaned over to catch a famous love scene ripple across their faded abode. Above them loomed the pointy crags of a ruined castle…a work of indescribably stirring art of humanity at its most candid and real.
The next morning, San Lucido’s beach felt more scenic in the bright sun. We all claimed a sizable wedge of sand on the empty beach and waded, swam and sunbathed to our heart’s content…that is, until I jammed my foot into an underwater rock. When I emerged, I looked down to see my big toenail practically torn off. Without being too graphic, I did leave a bloody trail all the way to my beach towel. Joe ran and obtained bandages and disinfectant from a group of fisherman near the gantries. And Pina performed minor surgery. Though my toe throbbed for the next few days, I survived and even covered more sightseeing ground. That afternoon, with relatives from near and far gathered to lament the fate of my big toe, we relaxed at the condo over a lunch of pasta with sausage and peas, an onion-prosciutto frittata, the Calabrian specialty of rosamarina (baby fish fermented in salt and chili peppers), and more ripe figs. Rum-soaked pastries were unwrapped from a glittery, beribboned box that could have held a wedding cake. The tucked-away backyard reminded me of Rome’s Appian Way – a long corridor of frizzy trees, crosshatched wooden fences, and stone benches that resembled sarcophagi.
As promised, Pina grabbed my arm and insisted we visit San Lucido’s Chiesa della Santa Maria Annunziata. After our group arrived, however, we soon realized that this would not come to pass. A priest had just locked the door and was headed to a soccer match. When he refused Pina’s booming pleas to open the church for her cousins, she called him an unprintable name. After lobbing a few curse words of his own, the clergyman angrily peeled out in his Fiat. Pina turned to two elderly women dressed in black, and they nodded in agreement with her. Despite this unexpectedly antagonistic encounter with a prelate, we admired the all-encompassing view of mountains and sea from the church’s summit. From my recollection, Pina went on to speak highly of a former Belsito parish priest who was transferred to the sleepy town of Malito, where she often drove to bring home-cooked meals and lively conversation. So she tends to be quite certain in her overall assessment of holy men, the one in San Lucido now relegated to an unforgettable moniker.
We took another stroll and made a few more sweet and amusing discoveries: a butcher shop called Mucca Pazza (Mad Cow); an Irish pub that sold Guinness; a garden with a mural that translated as “Corner of Free Thoughts,” filled with poetic phrases; and a decoupage artisan from whom Pina purchased a lovely gift for us of a cutting board-shaped wall hanging decorated with oranges.
During the course of our stay, we crossed over to the Ionian Sea coast to view with Luigi the construction of new homes near the stunning hyper-vertical beachfront Castello Federiciano Petrae Roseti in a small resort town called Roseto Capo Spulico. This grandly preserved castle sits right on a pristine beach.
Back on the Tyrrhenian side, Joe and I continued our travels South toward Reggio di Calabria to catch an aliscafo for the Aeolian Islands. We zoomed across the stirring coastal towns of Amantea, Tropea and Pizzo (the tartufo ice cream capital of Italy) until we encountered the fortress-topped Scilla (named for a ferocious multi-limbed sea monster the ancient Greeks blamed on many a shipwreck). At this point, we could see and hear the overpowering roar of currents emanating from the narrow Strait of Messina, a mythic waterway that divides Calabria from Sicily. For all its heartwarming beauty, Calabria’s Tyrrhenian coast proudly interacts with the more treacherous – and heart-racing -- forces of nature.
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